


I Release You

by calderapen



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6595210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calderapen/pseuds/calderapen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carol’s POV the morning she leaves Therese in the Drake Hotel.</p><p>Written in response to an anonymous fan who bemoaned the flak Carol was getting from some fans for her perceived cruelty in leaving Therese without telling her she was going to do so.  She asked for a fanfic depicting Carol’s mindset when she wrote the letter for Therese in the Drake after their last night together. Here it is, anon. Hope it's what you wanted.</p><p>Special thanks to @KaitBRoe for her insightful editorial support.</p><p>P.S. It's my first fanfic. Carol (2015) made me do it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Release You

She feels the girl’s movement under her chin, a slight nuzzle. She considers returning it, leaning her head down to press her lips to the girl’s forehead, her neck, her cheeks, to wake her gently with kisses. Carol feels a rush of want, but remains still. She knew when she’d invited Therese to come her bed with that resolute, _You don’t have to sleep over there,_ that it would be the last time, one last desperate escape from what is waiting for her back in Ridgewood. She wonders now if Therese had somehow known it, too, as their lovemaking had taken on an intensity and abandon that she hadn’t expected. _Let me,_ Therese had breathed, and Carol had let her, stunned by Therese’s newfound boldness. This from the girl who had choked through tears and smoke only hours before that she couldn’t know what she wanted.

She is so young. She has choices, a future Carol will never have. A future Carol cannot give her. Therese’s camera will take her around the world, to historical events, to world leaders, to crimes and scandals, movements and adventures. Therese won’t bend her passion, her talents, her aspirations to the will of men. She won’t hide her fierce intelligence, her curiosity, her creativity behind the desires of a husband or the needs of a child. Carol also knows Therese will find someone who will love her as she deserves to be loved, freely and without burdens of a life half-lived under the impossible expectations and rules of her age, her class and sex. Therese will live the life Carol will never have the courage to live.

Still wrapped in a tangle of arms, legs, and sheets in this tiny twin bed, Carol hadn’t dared move until the rise and fall of Therese’s breath had settled into a deep and quiet rhythm; now, when it has, she can’t bring herself to extricate herself from this embrace, not yet. She has to soak her in, to remember the way Therese’s hand feels against her back, the weight of her arm across her ribs, the way her breath warms Carol’s neck, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheek. She wants to take in her scent, hear her gentle breathing, for she will need to carry this memory with her the rest of her life--this feeling of trust and intimacy and union--because Carol knows she will never have this for herself, not ever again.

Carol feels the sting of tears under her closed eyes, but she won’t let them fall. As long as she stays in this bed, she can keep the world of Harge, lawyers, and private detectives away. As long as she holds this girl--this strange angel--so open and brave and naïve and strong, Carol can stave off the doctors and therapists, the pills, the “Edison’s medicine,” the humiliation and suppression that’s sure to come.

But the tick-tock of the clock on the bedside table reminds her that it won’t be long until Abby’s redeye will land at Midway. Carol will need to be there to greet her, to hand over the keys to the car and the hotel room, and then board the plane that will take her back to the Airds and the tortures they no doubt have in store for her. But there will be Rindy, sweet Rindy, and surely if Carol plays the game, she will be allowed this one pleasure, this one gift: her daughter, back in her arms.

Carol blinks open her eyes to see the slight orange glow of pre-dawn through the slit in the heavy floral curtains, fabric Therese so admired the first time they had come to the Drake. Carol allows herself to smile at the memory, only days ago, yet somehow, a lifetime. She had known then how much she’d wanted Therese. How much she’d desired her touch, her kiss, her body. She had begun to guess by then that Therese wanted her too. Carol hadn’t known, though, that after their night in Waterloo she would actually begin to imagine a future with the girl beyond dingy hotel rooms in this grey swath of the Midwest. Gazing out the window that bright New Year’s morning, sipping coffee while her darling Therese still slept, she marveled at how much things could change in one single night. Little did she know in that moment just how things _had_ changed. That little shit next door had seen to that.

How foolish she had been. She should have known. She’d brought the damn gun after all; some part of her must have had an inkling there would be trouble. If it hadn’t been Tucker it would’ve been someone or something else. Harge would have found out no matter what. She couldn’t keep running. _There are no accidents. Everything comes full circle._

Carol closes her eyes and allows herself one final moment to draw Therese in, to feel her small form so perfectly intertwined with her own. _I’m so sorry, my darling,_ she thinks, resisting the urge to pull her closer. She knows that when Therese wakes to find Carol gone and Abby in her place, she won’t understand. She will wonder why Carol hadn’t told her she’d be leaving. She will be hurt that Carol will have stolen away in the early morning without explanation, without resolution.

But they have used so few words between them. How could Carol find the right ones to tell her how she feels, and why she has to leave? How can she tell Therese she never meant to hurt her when there could be no other possible outcome? 

Slowly, as if moving through water, she holds her breath and slides her legs from between Therese’s, gently lifting her arm from under Therese’s arm. In one smooth motion, she rolls away from Therese’s warmth and shivers, naked, in the still-dark of the very early morning.

Despite Carol’s delicacy, Therese stirs, turning slightly onto her stomach. She pulls Carol’s pillow to her in Carol’s stead. Carol watches, next to the bed, her breath bated until she is sure Therese will not wake.

Carol lets out her breath in a slow, tremulous sigh and checks the clock. Half past five. She will have to hurry. She fumbles for her robe in the dim light, and then remembers that it’s still in the unpacked suitcase across the room. As she makes her way there, she trips over the pile of clothes on the floor they’d carelessly tossed there last night.

On her knees, she gathers up the coral sweater, the brown woolen skirt, the undergarments, her hose, and… _these damn pajamas,_ she thinks, shaking her head, almost chuckling. 

Carol had no idea that this would be what would break her. There, nude on the floor, she pulls Therese’s nightclothes to her face, inhaling the girl’s scent, and lets herself cry in muffled sobs, just for a moment, into the faded polka-dotted fabric. 

But there’s no time for sentiment, no time for guilt or indulgent self-pity. Carol wipes away the tears and presses Therese’s pajamas to her bare chest, smoothing the wrinkled cloth with her palms. She holds the bottoms up, folds them in half, and in half again. She fastens each button on the shirt as calmly and deliberately as she’d hastily undone them (with the help of Therese’s insistent fingers) last night, then folds in the sleeves. Each button is a moment. Each fold is a memory. Her task nearly finished, she places the pajamas neatly on the edge of the second, unused twin bed. _Well. That’s that._

The words come to her then. Words that will surely fail to explain or resolve, but words that she hopes will lessen the pain. For Therese. And maybe, herself.

Wrapped in the flannel plaid robe which does little to thwart the chill, Carol sits at the tiny table in the corner of the room and composes a letter on Drake stationery. The sliver of sunrise coming through the curtain offers her just enough light to see the paper and pen in front of her. _Dearest,_ she begins, and, holding back further tears, the words flow onto the page. 

It’s almost six; she’ll be late to meet Abby. No time to shower. She dresses in the bathroom and does the best as she can to tame her unwashed hair, still mussed from her restless night. She applies her make up, pins a hat in place, slips on heels and her fur coat. Here is her mask; here is her armor. This cold, hard beauty protects her from the world, and from herself.

 _I release you,_ she’d written to Therese, and she knows it’s the girl’s only chance at happiness. Carol may be what Therese wants, but she is not what Therese needs. Without Carol, Therese will thrive, she will blossom. Without Carol, Therese will become the woman she was meant to be.

Carol can’t bring herself to look upon the sleeping girl one more time before she slips out the door. Instead, she gazes at the woman in the full-length mirror. Her transformation is complete. She is Carol Aird once again, wife and mother. She is elegant, refined, a paragon of her class and stature. She will face Harge and his family, the lawyers, the doctors, people who will tell her she is immoral, an aberration, a crime against man and nature. She will face them with dignity and strength. She will smile. She will placate. She will tell them what they want to hear. She will not cry. She will not break. She will play their game and she will win.

Sliding sunglasses over puffy eyes, she tucks the letter into her purse. _Therese. I release you,_ she whispers in the void, and shuts the door quietly behind her.


End file.
